


breathe in, exhale (the blood flood)

by doc_boredom



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Gen, Mother Son Bonding, allusion to comic lore, barelyyyyyy, diego's love for mom is my everything, haven't finished season 1 this just exists in some time pocket of space and vent release, he's so damn soft, i mean it's diego so!, i needed to get some shit feelings out of my system and they coalesced into this, it's really just implied, knife throwing stress relief, mentions of klaus luther allison and five, minor jealousy, very minor spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 06:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18005852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doc_boredom/pseuds/doc_boredom
Summary: Diego Hargreeves held his breath and counted to five.Not second by second like a normal person would, but minute by minute, until his lungs threatened to explode.-Also known as Diego Hargreeves carved my heart from my chest and I let him do so willingly.





	breathe in, exhale (the blood flood)

Diego Hargreeves held his breath and counted to five.

Not second by second like a normal person would, but minute by minute, until his lungs threatened to explode.

The knife flew from his fingers the _exact_ moment he exhaled harshly, catching light and air like it was nothing as it turned over itself once, twice, three whole times before burying itself into the target several feet away.

A dead center bullseye, exactly where it belonged.

Around him, everything was quiet, still; waiting for him to inhale once more. He didn’t, not right away at least, instead letting his chest tremble and ache until it became painfully unbearable. Until he had no choice not to lest the room fade to black around him.

It felt like broken glass in his throat when he did, and Diego couldn’t help but love the fact.

Six minutes and counting. It had taken years to get to that point, and he’d taken every second he could along the way. Seconds spent in the mirror watching his face turn purple-red as the clock ticked on. Seconds plunged under lukewarm water with only his own hands to hold him down. Seconds spent standing in front of his father, Reginald (that _fucker_ ) gulping air down in a desperate attempt to go from _Two_ to _O_ _ne._

It never worked.

And, he realized with a breathless laugh, now it never would.

“Diego.” A voice called from the doorway. He turned, his breath sliding out of him before he could gather it up again. Mom stood there, picture perfect, red lipped and smiling as the pouring moonlight touched down upon her golden hair. “Working too hard, as usual.” She chastised him, tutting her tongue.

“Someone’s gotta.” He glanced away before he could really see the flatness of her eyes, the off kilter tilt of her smile. Too perfect in some ways, but not enough, he supposed.

“But it’s late. You ought to be sleeping.” She wasn’t wrong. Diego scrubbed a hand across his forehead, pushing at the sweat that had managed to gather there before raising his shoulders in an easy shrug.

“Adults don’t have bedtimes, mom.” Go pester Five, he almost added, before checking himself like a good son ought to.

She pouted and stepped further into the room, seeming to sense his hostility, her heels click-clacking across the hardwood floor. Diego watched as she pulled the knife from the target, watched as she studied it in the darkness he had created for himself in the ancient training room. “Knives are funny.” Mom announced suddenly, surprising him.

His brow arched of it’s own accord, a habit stolen from Allison maybe, or Klaus. “Oh?”

“The multifunctionality of them.” She mused, making her way towards him, step by step. “Carving, cutting, marking...” When she was like this, Diego could see why Luther would suspect her. He couldn’t do it though. Never. There were too many fond memories there. She smiled at him, reinforcing that fact as she dimpled and sighed. “And in your case, throwing too!”

He huffed a laugh through his nose and shook his head, reaching to take the knife from her. “I think.” She started, shifting it away from him. “You should take up another hobby, Diego.”

“Oh?” Diego said again, his voice becoming that much softer the second time around.

Reginald Hargreeves’ wife, Grace Hargreeves, looked very human in that moment. Maybe it was the way the moonlight and shadows played off her fine features, or maybe it was the way she posed herself with the knife ( _his_ knife) blade extended, tilted just so. It was like a picture waiting to be painted, impossible given the angle, the stillness in which she held herself... and yet she and the moment she had made for herself were undeniably _real_. “Wood carving.” Grace exclaimed after a moment, flipping the handle towards him, the blade resting in her palm. It curved up to her rewired circuitry, winked along the stitched skin there. “I think wood carving would suit you, dear.”

Diego sucked in a hurried breath and held it, but only for five seconds this time instead of five minutes before letting his fingers touch upon the blade.

She tilted her head, her smile drooping, perhaps noting the way his pulse tumbled over itself, or maybe something else. “Diego?”

When she looked at him like that, spoke like that, he really could convince himself that this was real. That she was his mother, his real mother, and that she loved him of her own accord instead of some madman's insistence and picture perfect programming. 

If he closed his eyes and wished hard enough, sometimes Diego could almost imagine they were a normal family. “Diego.” She said again, almost sounding sad as she touched his cheek.

It had never been Two with her. It was always Diego, always himself.

He inhaled once more and smiled despite everything, despite the awfulness of what had brought him back here to this rotting mansion and whatever secrets it housed.

“You know what mom…” He told her, grip tightening on the knife. “I think I just will.”

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i needed to write this  
> i just did


End file.
